


weightless and maybe

by cnidarian



Category: Actor RPF, Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnidarian/pseuds/cnidarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>spend all your time waiting for that second chance</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thestarkinwinterfell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarkinwinterfell/gifts).



> Spoilers for the whole of Season 1. [thestarkinwinterfell](http://thestarkinwinterfell.tumblr.com/) also made [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpqhp4aeeM1qexgkbo1_500.jpg) AMAZING cover art, omfg!

Mark jokes about having Lena as his wife, and it's funny because she's such a live wire on set, so completely different from Cersei Lannister. Sean wonders why it's not Cersei _Baratheon_ , but he doesn't mention it to anyone. That would be getting too heavily into the source material and he learnt _that_ lesson on the set of _Fellowship_. He knows Addy from way back, it's been great to work with him again, but after they shot the pilot, Sean knew this wasn't going to be anything like the family he found with Viggo and Dom and Elijah.

But that was before Benioff announced that they were re-shooting the pilot due to a couple of casting changes. Now, suddenly, Mark's jokes aren't quite as funny anymore.

On the first day of the re-shoot, they're in the yard at Winterfell, lined up as a family. Everyone knows what they're doing for the most part, so the first time he meets Michelle she's already in the Stark furs. Their greeting is perfunctory - it's not like they're actually exchanging lines until later in the week - and she barely seems to register him, clearly trying to catch up by taking everything in. He sympathises; he hates being on the back foot at the very start. He wants to tell her as much, but Benioff is keen to get this done and the scene is easy, so it's over before he gets a chance. It's not until later, when they all gather to decide who's heading down the pub, that he sees her, shrugging into a jacket over jeans and a blouse, and he realises just how small she is. She glances his way then, leaving no time to try to pretend he's not staring. She doesn't seem to notice. He tilts his head in what he hopes will be interpreted as a 'you-coming-to-the-pub?' gesture. She nods and graces him with an easy smile.

And that's it, though he couldn't explain it if he tried. For the rest of the evening he finds himself seeking her out in the small crowd. She's friendly, quiet without being shy, extremely modest, and her laugh is infectious and warm. He's read Martin’s book; he knows they don't have many scenes together after the first few weeks, but he decides there and then that he wants to hear her laugh as much as possible on set, even if it means disrupting shooting.

Their next scene together is in the Godswood, and it's here that he realises two things. One is that it's going to be a lot harder than he thought to get her to break character and laugh. She's so sincere in her acting, the exact opposite of Viggo at times, though Sean thinks they are both as talented. The other realisation is that their _next_ scene, which he's been told will be set in the Stark's bedroom, is going to be a real challenge. He's not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Weiss and Benioff are deviating from the book by having them stay fully clothed.

In the end, it's a ridiculously easy shoot. He holds her and it's not awkward, and when she lies back down against him after poking his cheek, he can feel how she's put together, soft curves and sinewy lines. He gets to hear her laugh; it's part of the scene, but he's calling it a win anyway. Donald's entrance has her climbing out of the bed - their bed? he mentally smacks himself for even thinking it - while he wishes he'd fluffed his lines. A third take wouldn't have hurt. Then he nearly _does_ fluff his lines because he's not concentrating, distracted by her bare feet, the burnished hair flowing down her back, and a third, final realisation.

When he's around her, there's the sensation of falling, a twisting in his stomach, and he's not sure he wants to fight it. He's pretty sure he can hear Viggo laughing from New York.


	2. Chapter 2

He's quietly amazed by how much of a mess she looks when she's in tears. Even then, he thinks she's beautiful, but he knows himself well enough to acknowledge that she'll probably always be beautiful, in any state. She _is_ though, in an understated way. He spends far too much time thinking about what it is that she calls upon, what past experience or imagined scenario, to bring on a crying jag like that.

She is still looking vaguely devastated when she comes to him later in the afternoon, mortified. They're shooting all the scenes from Bran's bedside in the same block, and, during the assassin's attack, she accidentally head-butted the stunt guy in the chin. It's kind of funny, really, but she clearly doesn't think so, so he uses some gentle logic to remind her that the stuntman effectively gets paid to get slightly hurt, and that it probably hurt her more than anything. She shakes her head, but winces anyway and subconsciously reaches up to the crown of her head.

She hasn't yet washed the red dye off her fingers, he notes, as he watches his own hand pull hers away. She has smallish hands with long fingers. She also has a lump on her head. He moves around to look and she puts up a half-hearted denial before tilting her head to help him see. He spends longer than strictly necessary checking that she's okay. He tries not to read too much into it, but, well, she came to _him_ with her sore head and her embarrassment, when she could've gone to anyone.

Much later on, he thinks about how it's the first time he's touched her out of character. And how he kind of wants to find a reason to do it all the time, which will be tough considering how little she’ll be around, with the bulk of the Ireland shooting done.

All that's left for him to film are the King's Landing scenes, over in Malta, where it's uncomfortably warm in thick leather. He's grateful he doesn't have to wear actual armour like Nikolaj and the two dozen extras. He's been out there for a week when Michelle and Ron Donachie fly in. By the time their scene with Aiden comes up, the sun has brought out a light dusting of freckles high on her cheeks and her eyes appear bluer than normal. He's missed her, so when Brian Kirk directs him to stop, mid-throttle, and look to her with a mix of amazement and longing, he doesn't really need to act at all.

The morning the two of them shoot the goodbye scene in the courtyard is also Mark's last day on the _Thrones_ set. There's a small celebration planned, starting in the hotel bar and finishing fuck knows where. He's heard Dinklage predicting that it's going to be messy.

The terrible trio - Kit, Rich and Alfie – call from the UK, challenging him and Mark to a drink-off. Usually he'd be taking it very seriously, but after the first round, it finally sinks in that tomorrow is the final shoot opposite her. He’s not ready to let go of _this_ , whatever it is, even though he promised himself he would when the time came.

It’s the chemistry. He’s positive she can feel it, too. Sparkage so palpable that Jamie Sives, whom neither he nor Michelle know that well, smirked at him when the first courtyard take was cut after Jamie's horse got restless behind Sean's head. He thinks Jamie might possibly have done it deliberately, but Sean isn’t sure whether he owes him a beer for that or not.

Because if wanting to keep touching her was difficult, then wanting to kiss her again is much worse. And, even now that he’s _sure_ he’s not reading too much into it, he still can’t imagine ever actually telling her.


	3. Chapter 3

He meets Mark drink for drink, regardless. Dead-character departure parties can’t be done by halves, after all. And he should know. At the second bar they go to, he overhears Lena saying something to Michelle about alcohol and Irish people. He considers it a theory worth testing and spends the night covertly supplying her with refills.

In the morning, he doesn’t recall being _too_ drunk, but there’s a stunning hangover waiting for him anyway. He wonders if he might be getting too old for this. Neither Benioff nor Weiss are idiots, and Sean is grateful; nobody is expected on set until the afternoon.

Reception is looking pretty dead when he finally goes downstairs at 11am. The thought of food doesn’t appeal, but he thinks he knows what might help. There’s a secluded section of Valletta’s city wall that he’s discovered around the corner from the hotel, offering a sea breeze and shade until about midday. He’s not counting on having to share it with anyone else, least of all her, yet there she is, even after some vigorous blinking.

She turns when he approaches and, by way of greeting, informs him that he looks as if he could do with a coffee. It must be worse that he thought; he's had two cups already. He notes that she appears none the worse for wear. Lena was right, apparently.

"Morning to you, too," he responds, more gruffly than he intended, but she merely smirks and turns back to towards the sea. It's a great view, he thinks, made all the better now.

He takes a seat on the wall beside her. The wind is tousling her hair and there are auburn strands caught in her eyelashes. "I thought I was the only one who knew about this spot."

"You don’t remember telling me in Footloose?" she asks, slanting a glance in his direction. The smirk is still there, but now her face also betrays a hint of a blush, and he suddenly wonders what else he doesn’t remember from last night.

"No..." he says, warily. She blushes deeper, unmistakably this time, and tries to look away. His stomach twists. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, too quickly. She’s more bashful than anything, which helps to ease the rising dread. There’s a palpable silence before she blows out a deep breath.

"You’re just a kind of...huggy drunk," she reveals, with a shrug. He thinks he sees her lips twitch.

He knows he should be sorry, but instead he says, "You’ve never met Sean Astin, have you?"

She blinks at him.

"You know, Samwise Gam—," he begins and, startlingly, she dissolves into helpless laughter. He stares for a long moment, remembering how he tried and failed to make this happen months ago. Maybe not _this_ this, he reconsiders, eyeing her with concern as she attempts to apologise through the hand she’s holding over her face.

"I hope you told me to bugger off," he says, when she finally gets a hold of herself.

"No," she replies, wiping tears away with her thumb, "but a number of other people did."

He groans in dismay. "This afternoon’ll be interesting, then."

She looks over at him, blue eyes sparkling. "Don’t worry; you won’t be the only one on the receiving end. Not by far."

He snorts before sobering. "Ah, crap. I’m really sorry."

"Och, don’t be," she waves dismissively. "Everyone had a good night, I think."

He’s not sure what to say, besides continuing to apologise, so they lapse into silence again and she turns her attention to the yachts out in the harbour. He glances at his watch. They’ll have to move soon or else be late on set.

He asks when she’s flying back, as if he doesn’t already know.

"Tuesday afternoon. Lena says you’ve still got a few weeks left, yet?"

He nods, but she's not looking his way.

"You getting one, too?"

"What, a Ned's Dead Party?" he confirms.

She turns to him then, eyebrows up near her hairline. "That's what they're calling it?! Really?"

He shrugs. "It might end up being back in the UK, so everyone can be there. Share the carnage, right?"

"Or spare Valletta," she says, grinning.

"You're welcome to come if it's in London, though if you don't want to be subjected to all _that_ again," he waves his hand, embarrassed, "I wouldn't blame you."

She laughs. "Yeah, sorry, I might leave it to the pros next time. Pub crawls aren't really my forte."

He nods while mentally kicking himself. "Fair enough." He's proud that he doesn't sound disappointed. Much.

"But, you know, I'm not adverse to going for a drink, or whatever. When you get back." It's the most unsure he's ever heard her and, in the corner of his vision, he can see her pluck at a loose thread on the seam of her linen trousers.

"And," she continues, "if there's any hugging involved—"

"—you are welcome to give me a smack," he finishes over the top of her as she says, _maybe we'll _both_ remember this time_.

Which is really not what he expected her to say.

They gawp at each other for a long moment. Apparently, she's as shocked by her words as he is.

"I think I could handle that," he manages, at last. She hesitates, then gives a tentative grin. He pretends not to notice that a blush is staining her cheeks again and her eyes are still wide.

"Uh, aren't we on set soon?" It sounds like an escape tactic, but she's right.

He mentally shakes himself. They're really going to have to focus during the taxi ride out, he thinks, as he stands and helps her up. Their last shoot together. The idea suddenly doesn't seem as bad as it did yesterday.

Except he's totally going to fluff his lines this time.


	4. Chapter 4

All the _what ifs_. He's probably going to spend the rest of his life thinking about them. What would've happened if he'd opened his mouth a moment earlier. What if she'd just held her breath like he'd suggested.

They would've finished the bottle, he supposes, then called it a great evening and phoned for a taxi. And that would've been that.

It's been that way since the beginning, when he'd been back from Malta five days and she called him to suggest going somewhere for dinner, and he let her do all the talking because his voice was caught in his throat. He made sure to phone her the next time, and the time after that. Good food, some wine, nothing special; it's simultaneously familiar and off-kilter. But it _works_ , so even when it feels like they're ricocheting from one addictive, nonchalant phone call to another, they don't mess with the formula.

Until last night, at least. They'd lingered after dinner, talking and trying to make the Chilean red last as long as possible. He'd deliberately misquoted her, hoping for a laugh, only she'd been taking a sip of wine at the same time, so instead he got a small, choking cough. Then hiccups, ten seconds later.

He'd told her to hold her breath, but she'd said no, she needed a shock. So, buzzed on alcohol and her proximity, he'd leant over and whispered for her to stay the night.

It made the hiccups stop, so he wasn't sorry. He's not sorry now, either, largely because it's 7am and he's counting the freckles on the slim shoulder that his duvet has left exposed.

Months ago, he had not known how to tell her. It makes him laugh now, thinking of how he never even _had to_. He thinks, too, of how one casting change changed everything, and sends out his silent thanks.

"Wuz'funny?" she mumbles sleepily, stirring enough to slip a long leg free of the sheets. Her hair is catching the first rays of morning sun and setting fire to his pillow.

"Nothing," he replies, shifting to press his lips to her bare shoulder. "But we should really keep these changes to the formula."

Blue eyes flicker open as her brows knit together in confusion. He runs his fingertips along her thigh, up under the sheet, and whatever she was going to ask dies on her lips. She murmurs _okay_ , then hums invitingly. He stills his hand. The frown returns full force as she tugs him to her.

"What, you mean it's for more than just treating hiccups?" he asks with mock-wonder.

"Yes," she insists against his lips. He's discovering an assertive side to her that only adds to her appeal.

"Show me," he implores. And she does.


	5. Chapter 5

They don't dwell on the second time. It's a product of too long without touching her, fuelled by dreams where he gets to touch her whenever he wants without needing to stop for hunger or thirst or anything else in the whole world. Perhaps there is too much pressure, the anticipation overwhelming the reality. Or perhaps, he thinks at the time, she's having second thoughts.

Either way, it's just not that great, and his stomach ties itself in knots in the weeks that follow, just thinking that maybe the first time was a fluke.

\--

The third time, his hands are icy cold, but he doesn't stop. Her gasps - his knuckles dragging across the crotch of her jeans, his mouth on her pulse point - are indistinguishable from each other by the time he's gotten under her clothes to touch her.

They need to move, before they're caught. It's 3pm and the woods beyond the snow-covered National Trust carpark are hording the gloom in the gathering dark. She hates winter, hates the bare tree limbs and the wind that goes right through her. Four minutes ago, when she leant over the back seat to swap her wet gloves for dry, she hated the chilled skin that comes from being outside in December.

But that was before he pushed her into sitting by burying his warm-face-cold-nose in the crook of her neck, and she laughingly reached to cradle the back of his head, and he pulled back enough to look her in the eyes and then caught her hand and _sucked her finger_ with lips that were like ice and a tongue that was like fire.

And, now he's finally won his battle with fourteen layers and one button, she doesn't have time to object to his cold fingers before he's pressing them into her heat. He makes a noise of delighted surprise, and, as she tilts her hips, she can't help being shocked by how wet she's become when only minutes ago she was merely looking forward to a hot cup of coffee.

Nothing is cold now. He's hard against her calf and she would be reaching for his fly right now if they weren't still in a Surrey carpark. She's honestly not sure either of them can prevent this from reaching its natural conclusion and then they'll be one-still-open-car-door on the wrong side of indecent.

She's so unbelievably relieved that the chemistry is back again, she almost doesn't care. Something tempts her to stay, some wicked part of her that wants to revel in the way he's undoing her so completely.

"Stop," she groans instead, reluctantly, a split second before he says _not here_ through clenched teeth.

He pushes off her. Smirking, she holds out her hand and he blinks.

"Keys," she says, nodding towards the bulge in his trousers. "I don't think you are fit to drive right now."

His grimace turns into a stare, features hungry and dark and beautiful. She knows right then that she's going to push all the speed limits driving east.

\---

 _Stay the night._

Three words, and they were both a little drunk, and he could've meant _in my spare room_. But right then, she couldn't have made a sound if her life depended on it. Not even a hiccup, which she supposed was kind of the plan.

Straight away, his expression had turned fearful, thinking the plan had backfired spectacularly.

She could've left. Or laughed it off and _then_ left, pretending not to notice the awkwardness crowding the room. She could've chosen to take it innocently; the spare room option. It would've been fine, except for the badly disguised disappointment that would've broken her heart and the low-level need that would've kept her from sleep. But she could've left.

She doesn't. She nods and whispers _okay_ back, sounding calm when she really isn't, even now after he gave her time to backpedal by taking the glasses to the kitchen.

Their first kiss is actually the third, and the most chaste of them all. When he leans in, touching his forehead to hers, they both keep their eyes open.

He's so gentle; she eventually has to tell him that she won't break. To prove her point, she kisses him fiercely, dragging her teeth across his bottom lip. He makes a sound in his throat that twists low in her abdomen and, while she knows it's more than that, she can only describe it as desire. It flairs bright and stays alight, and it's then that she realises that she's in serious trouble.

His sheets are Egyptian cotton, she's pretty sure. The material is a cool contrast to their heat as they come together, his hands roaming everywhere. With his hands otherwise engaged she palms him, first through his trousers and then under them, until it interferes with his blouse removal efforts. Things get a little tangled, then, and the scowl of mock-disapproval he gives her when she starts sniggering only makes her laugh harder.

He kisses a trail down from her clavicle to her navel, then encourages her to bend her knees to plant her feet flat on the mattress. The fingers of his left hand curve around her ribs. He kneels, eyes never leaving hers except when she has to close them to press her head back into the pillow, hard.

When he uses his tongue to bring her right to the edge for the second time, clearly intending stop again, she can't stifle her frustrated whimper. He hesitates for a moment and she makes a grab for his hair. He dodges, gives her a lopsided smile and rises abruptly, moving up to cover her body with his own.

She's coming before he's even finished sliding inside her, although she fights it. She wants to be aware of each detail, not blinded by her own climax. Her hands clutch at his shoulders and buttocks as his hips come to rest against hers. She can't speak coherently enough to ask him to stop for a moment, but it's not necessary; he's happy to wait until the over-sensitivity eases.

And then he's moving, in earnest, regular thrusts. She wraps her legs around him, experimenting with the different angles until she finds one that makes his jaw clench against her temple. As a bonus, it also feels fantastic at her end.

His rhythm falters as she breaks a second time. She kisses him, one hand cupped to the scruff of short beard along his jaw, then slips the other hand under her thigh and between to where their bodies meet. His breathing is laboured and he hisses on the intake when her fingers stroke his balls.

He leaves the indentation of his teeth in her neck with his orgasm, pressing his open mouth to her throat and groaning. She almost comes again just on the basis of those long syllables.

She can still taste herself on his lips when he kisses her, sloppy and careless with their bonelessness. As she drifts off, his hand tangles in her hair and she smiles into his cotton pillow.

That is the first time.


	6. Chapter 6

Day two and his name shows up on her caller ID. She had made him promise not to call until she got back to London and that's another three days off yet, so she nearly doesn't pick up. She knows he's not above using something random, some conveniently-forgotten fish feeding instructions or whatever, just as an excuse to hear her voice.

 _It's not what it looked like_.

Those are the first words he says, blurts really, when she finally does answer. She's nonplussed for a moment and in the silence he adds, _really_ , in a tone that suggests she should be angry right now. With him. She's not quite sure what this is that they have going on, but she's not had reason to be mad at him yet.

"Okaaay," she allows, hoping that if she goes slow enough, it'll start making sense.

"That April thing," he attempts to clarify, but all she can think is that it's June right now. She casts her mind back a couple of months, trying to remember anything pertinent. In the expectant pause, she recognises a faint noise; he's fidgeting.

"She's just a friend. And it wasn't a fight."

Ah.

She explains that she's not heard about whatever it is he thinks she's heard about and that, really, it's none of her business anyway. As she talks, she types ‘ _Sean Bean fight_ ’ into Google. The word 'stabbed' grabs her attention, halting her mid-sentence.

"— _Christ_ , Sean! Your arm – are you alright?!"

"You _do_ know." His tone is half accusation, half something-else. She thinks it sounds like guilt.

"I do _now_. And don't avoid the question." She _is_ a little angry, she discovers, but not for the reason he imagines.

He assures her he's fine and that, honestly, it was nothing. She's not sure if he means the cut or the whole going-to-a-bar-with-a-glamour-model thing. She doesn't care about gossipy tabloids. He's been bleeding all over a Camden pavement and the idea that he thinks she's more concerned about whom he chooses to spend his time with... _That_ makes her more than just a little angry.

"It _is_ your business," he adds, quietly, just as she's about to lay into him. "After everything, I mean." She thinks of Malta and all that followed. "You deserve to know I'm not an arsehole."

It's far from eloquent, even for him, but it takes the wind out of her sails all the same.

"You're not an arsehole," she says with a sigh. "An _eejit_ , maybe..."

He gives a huff of amusement, and it reminds her of filming _Thrones_ , when they were Lord and Lady Stark and he laughed, with his chest under her cheek. He must be thinking along the same lines because then he asks after the gang and about when shooting starts again. It'll be strange without him there, both for her and the rest of the cast. Sophie and Maisie had told him as much when the kids had all hugged him goodbye last year.

The oven is beeping; he's got to go.

"See you when you get back?" he asks, sounding so casual when she _knows_ it's not just her who’s feeling slightly short of breath all of a sudden. Whatever this is, it's _something_ , and she wonders belatedly if his calling is an attempt to give a name to it. To add a framework where before they were both fine leaving it untailored. She has to smile.

"Sure," she replies, in kind. She can hear him grinning. "Just don't forget to feed the fish."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a silly easter egg of sorts for thestarkinwinterfell, who made a comment about Boromir/The Ring which I jokingly said I should incorporate into this fic. Somehow it actually happened, possibly due to Sho being the best kind of enabler.

They absolutely never mention the L word.

They _do_ talk about how he kind of noticed her from the start, when she smiled at him after set on the first day of the re-shoot. He's bashful about it, which makes her feel bad for lying to him about her moment of clarity. She noticed him on day one, too, of course. He's Sean Bean and quite a presence besides. But it took her a little longer to become aware that she actually wanted to be around him more than _Thrones_ shooting allowed for.

That's not what she lies about, though. What he doesn't know is that, while he was away in Malta, she watched _The Fellowship of the Ring_ on the telly. And that, when she flew out to film the brothel scenes, she caught him looking at her, intently, and instantly recognised the expression. It was then she realised that he wanted her.

He still does it now, sometimes, and even though she feels ridiculous, she always mentally refers to it as "looking at her the way Boromir looked at the ring".

She'll never tell him because she suspects that once he knows the truth, he'll stop doing it. And the secret behind the truth is that it's an instant turn-on.

So there's two L words, really.


	8. Chapter 8

He loves her knowing face. The one that tells him she knows what he's about to do and that they'll both like it. Her knowing face has never been wrong yet.

Listening to her off-key humming, he toys with the idea of getting up to fix a brew.

It's been 5 hours since he walked away from the argument, 2 hours since she came looking for him, to apologise, only to walk away herself when he was still too angry to listen, and 40 minutes since he went to her and they ended up fucking in her kitchen.

As far as he's concerned, it's the first time they've really fought. It's also the first time they've really fucked, though he tries not to think too hard about that correlation. Instead, he thinks about the noises she made when he ran his mouth along the line of her jaw before biting her earlobe. Or the way she clung to him for balance with one hand and guided his fingers with the other. Or the feel of her ass against him as she moved to better meet his thrusts.

The tea isn't going to make itself, but she's murdering Dylan in the shower and it's the funniest thing he's heard all week.

She stops the instant he closes the bathroom door behind him. He watches her step out onto the mat and reaches for a towel, silently nudging her into a half-turn so he can run it across her back.

With her hair flattened by the water, she looks even smaller than ever. The first time he curled around her, he could feel her vertebrae prominent against his chest. Since then, he's found he can span her ribcage with his hands, fingertips touching. She always wriggles away, complaining about having the metabolism of a small mouse. He finds it oddly affecting that there's nothing to her while she's becoming everything to him.

Once her back is dry, she takes the towel off him; she's remarkably tolerant of him interfering with her post-shower routine, but they both know he's useless with hair.

It's only when she turns right around that he sees the faint redness around her left hip. Finger marks, and there'll be bruises in the morning. Guilt flashes through him, followed instantly by heat. He remembers the jut of her hip under his palm, the sensation of losing himself in her velvet warmth, and the thought leaves him half-hard.

She catches him staring and twists to look at herself. Her face shows surprise when she meets his eyes, but before she can say anything, her gaze flicks down and her eyebrows up.

Considering it's all her fault, he dons an unrepentant expression and then has to bite his lip when she makes an impish comment about his performance being not bad for an old man.

Following her back into her bedroom, it takes his brain a little while to catch up. She's putting clothes on. He didn't have any plans for the rest of the day until just now, but they definitely don't involve clothes.

He bodily blocks the wardrobe and tries not to feel silly staging a naked intervention. She's amused in an exasperated way; he can tell he's pushing his luck by the way her Belfast accent becomes more pronounced. The argument is mostly water under the bridge now, but forgiven does not equal forgotten. Her even temper belies her fierceness when she feels justified and he has no desire to be on the receiving end again any time soon.

"You'd make a very pretty coat hanger," she muses.

"Good to know I have my uses..." he says, mainly to distract her while he reaches for the shirt she's yet to button up.

She rolls her eyes and swats half-heartedly at his arms. "We can't spend the whole afternoon in bed..."

"No? You're off to Londonderry soon. You'll miss me." He lets her keep the shirt, parting the front to slip his fingers across her stomach instead. She doesn't even attempt to stop him and when she closes her eyes he allows himself a triumphant grin.

"What have you done with my willpower?" she sighs.

He doesn't answer, just presses his advantage by stepping closer. She arches into his palms, nipples taught. If he could, he'd spend every afternoon with her, learning every contour.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he backs her towards the bed in a messy two-step. He kisses her soundly and she pushes back.

Leaving him caressing thin air, she drops to sitting. There's a challenging look in her eyes.

"I could be drinking tea and watching banal adverts," she teases. "This better be good."

"The best," he promises as she lies back and he moves next to her.

Before he can pull her into his embrace, she's up and straddling him. With deft hands, she strokes him to full hardness before he takes her wrists and instructs her to mimic him. She doesn't understand, so he places his index finger to her mouth while guiding her finger across his own lips.

Then her knowing face tells him everything.


End file.
